Not A Hard Deduction
by slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: Sherlock has been dreadfully bored, so John attempts to get him out of the flat to socialize by dragging him to a club, although things don't play out exactly like the doctor expects them to. Johnlock ensues. Rated M for a reason!


**This is my first attempt at writing anything this smutty! Hopefully it doesn't seem too ridiculous. xD Came up with it from a prompt I was given on Tumblr: John drags Sherlock to a club. As always, reviews are wonderful!**

**I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. (Unfortunately!)**

* * *

"Oh, _God,_ John. These people are so _bloody dull_," Sherlock grumbled, eyeing the people milling around in the club uncomfortably. It was too loud. He could almost feel parts of his mind palace crumbling under the atmosphere. He'd have to make some repairs later, this whole ordeal would take ages to recover from. "Why did I even have to come with in the first place?"

"Sherlock. You haven't been out of the flat in weeks. Every case that's come by is too easy, too trivial, or your _favorite_ adjective: dull. Mrs. Hudson begged me to get you out of the flat so you'd stop taking upon yourself to decorate the walls with bulletholes," John sighed, turning to the bartender to order a couple of drinks. "Now, try to entertain yourself for a bit. Look, that woman over there's got her eye on you. I'll wait here with our drinks. Go talk to her."

Sherlock glanced over to the woman that John had gestured over to and rolled his eyes. Superficially attractive. But even from where he was seated could make some fairly strong deductions. Serial adulterer among them. Predictable.

_Dull._

"I'd rather not," Sherlock replied curtly, taking a sip of the beverage John had ordered him. He didn't drink alcohol. Never much liked the taste of it. But he figured if the doctor wanted him to suffer through a few hours in this insipid place he would probably need it.

John just shook his head, unsurprised, his own drink in hand. "What did you deduce _this _time?"

"Oh, the usual. Unfaithful, middle-class, two children, and a _very _nasty pet fish," Sherlock explained, a bored look on his face.

"How did you—a _fish_—" But John thought better of questioning him, not really in the mood to have the consulting detective point out some completely minuscule detail that was just so _obvious _and have him feel like an idiot about it. "Ahh, nevermind. Can't you just—turn that _off_? Just long enough to have _one _pleasant conversation with another human being?"

"Turn it off? Can't do that. Besides, then I'd just be _average. _Your funny little brains just seem so boring, how could I possibly, _willingly,_ want to function in that way?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. "Honestly, John. That was a _dreadfully _stupid question. And why would I even want to converse with others? It's all so frivolous, really. Social interaction is highly overrated."

If this same conversation hadn't occurred dozens of times already, John might have been mildly offended. He'd become relatively indifferent to his flatmate's behavior over time. If he hadn't—well, he'd have spent half of the last year feeling personally victimized by the detective's generalized mockery.

"Okay. Sherlock. All you have to do is just find someone in this club that sparks your fancy and try not to piss them off within three seconds. Got it?" John advised, more of a command than a question. Before waiting for an answer, he grabbed his drink and made off into the crowd of people.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. He did very much like it when John used his soldier voice.

After finishing off his drink, he started feeling a bit of a buzz, and looked around the club. There were several women eyeing him. He _was_ in his purple shirt after all.

But, ignoring the hungry stares of the tipsy ladies, he got a better idea.

He weaved his way through the detestable congregation and finally spotted the one person in the entire building that _did _catch his interest.

But the person of interest's interest was on another; a pretty, shapely, auburn-haired woman in a tight, low-cut dress with an open back that left very little to the imagination.

_How classy, John._

Stepping fluidly between the pair, he grabbed the drink out of John's hand and placed it on the nearest surface. Turning to the woman, Sherlock smiled mischievously. "I'm sorry, miss, but I'm sure you have a pair of very lonely cats to get back to."

John had recovered from the initial surprise and forced Sherlock to face him. "What the bloody _hell_ are you doing?_ Can't you see I'm busy_?"

"We came here for me, because I was bored," Sherlock reminded the doctor as he started pulling him from the outskirts onto the dancefloor. "And I'm merely following the instructions that you gave me."

"I did not tell you to interrupt me while I was trying to get off with that woman!" John practically shouted, trying to pull himself from the detective's surprisingly strong grip.

"No, of course not," Sherlock shook his head. "But you _did _tell me to find someone that sparks my fancy. And I have. The only being in this whole establishment that could not bored me to death is standing right here in front of me."

"No you _haven't _because I'm right—" John started, then his voice caught when he realized what Sherlock was telling him. "Wait..._what_?"

"Oh, you heard me. You know I hate repeating myself," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

John was turning red at this point. "You mean—I don't bore you?"

"Of course not," the detective shrugged, pulling the doctor closer. He was much more pliant now.

Slowly, hesitantly, John allowed Sherlock to put his hands at his waist. A slower song was playing.

"Am I really—I just—" John stammered, but leaned his forehead against Sherlock's chest anyway.

"Look who's being the overly talkative one now," Sherlock smiled slyly, burying his face in his blogger's hair.

Sherlock felt John start to pull away and began to make a noise of protest, but it was suddenly muffled by the doctor's lips on his.

It was tentative. Gentle. Sherlock could feel the indecision behind the action.

But while the detective was deducing all these things he realized he'd stiffened. He'd frozen. Become unresponsive. Too wrapped up in that big, stupid brain of his.

John tore himself from the other man quickly, turning on his heel to leave dancefloor without waiting for objection. Embarrassment shooting out of him in waves, his usually rigid posture suddenly slack.

Sherlock's long stride easily allowed him to catch up and grab him from behind, much more firmly than necessary. The doctor was obviously hoping he would chase him. The detective loosened his grip, and turned his flatmate around.

"Too much thinking," Sherlock managed to get out before crashing his lips against John's. This time, neither of them were nervous or hesitant.

They were confident and passionate and even though Sherlock hadn't experimented with romantic relations since college, and those experiments had since been deleted from his mind palace, he was quick about re-learning it all.

John bit Sherlock's bottom lip and sucked gently, until he opened his mouth and allowed entry. He gently caressed the roof of the detective's mouth and felt himself drawn in even closer as the other man shuddered with pleasure. When they finally pulled apart to breath, they were both completely desperate, and nowhere near finished.

Not to mention that both of them felt like their pants were suddenly much too tight. It had certainly evolved into something that would be best taken care of in a more private place, easily visible in the blown pupils in the two sets of eyes.

The cab ride back to 221B was tense, to say the least. Sherlock kept grazing his hand over John's crotch discreetly, a devilish glint in his eye, and the doctor had to bite his lip more than once to restrain himself from letting out a desperate whimper.

Sherlock struggled to let them into the flat, his hands shaking with anticipation. A few muttered curses later, they crashed through the door, barely remembering to shut it behind them in their fervor.

"You're the exception, you know," John growled as he nipped at Sherlock's neck. "I'm not gay. Just..._Sher-sexual_."

"Well, isn't that convenient for me," Sherlock replied playfully, sucking gently at John's pulse point and pushing his hands under his jumper. The doctor hissed through his teeth with pleasure.

"And this _goddamned purple shirt,_" John murmured, started to fiddle with the buttons.

Sherlock suddenly tensed, and the doctor felt it, letting his hands drop quickly. "Are you alright?"

"Oh—yes. Of course," the detective, although his voice held no conviction.

"Hey, we don't have to do this..." John trailed off, his face turning red again.

"No! I want—I just—" For once, Sherlock was lost for words. He completed the thought quietly. "I deleted it."

And for some reason, John found this immensely funny. He accidentally let slip a high-pitched giggle. And every time Sherlock heard that giggle, he couldn't help but laugh himself.

"Well," John finally started when he managed to regain a little of his composure. "Shouldn't be too hard to replace."

The doctor resumed unbuttoning the irresistible purple shirt, meeting the detective's eyes, asking for permission. He nodded.

And that was all he needed.

It was all a flurry of hands and belts and shirts and jumpers and jackets and trousers and pants and they barely managed to stagger into the bedroom without having their way with each other against a wall.

John shoved Sherlock down on his bed and leaned across him, lavishing kisses all over his neck and chest and stomach. The detective was becoming completely undone.

And John was relishing every second of it. It was a rare sight, indeed. Sherlock's hair was completely mussed and slightly plastered to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes weren't calm and calculating and focused, but dark and frantic with need.

Need for John.

_I'm doing this to him._

That thought alone had him throbbing.

He gingerly wrapped his hand around Sherlock's length, pumping slowly. He'd never done this with another man, but he'd wanked himself off often enough to know what could push him over the edge. And from the deliciously deep moan that escaped the detective's lips and the way his hips were trying to find some much-needed friction, he was doing well enough.

"_Like that_?" John asked aggressively. Sherlock nodded jerkily, thrusting again.

Before John got much further, he suddenly found himself underneath Sherlock instead. "I think I've un-deleted it," he growled possessively. John had always been the dominate one in his sexual relationships, but this sudden twist made his breath catch.

"Mmm, you like that, huh?" Sherlock purred, taking John's length into his long fingers. "Who would have thought, the soldier enjoys being submissive."

John couldn't form words. The way Sherlock was grinding into him left him speechlessly aching for release. The most he could get out was a wanton plea.

"Well, it's quite befitting," Sherlock smiled, possessiveness slipping into his tone once again. He brought his mouth down on the doctor's neck and sucking, sure to leave a mark. It made the smaller man gasp. "Because, after all, you're _mine._"

Sherlock kissed his way down, kneeling at the end of the bed, hovering. Slowly but deliberately, he went down as far as he could without choking in one go. This elicited the most erotic sound the detective had ever heard in his entire life from his flatmate-turned-lover. John bucked up against the sudden wetness, the sensation almost spilling him over the edge already.

He whined as Sherlock pulled away and started fumbling around in the bedside table's drawer.

The detective came back with a small bottle and started coating his fingers with it. John's eyes widened in nervous anticipation.

Sherlock gently pressed against John's hole with one finger, tentatively pushing inside. "Okay?"

John nodded. He added a second. A third.

Then hit his prostate.

The sensation made him moan in pleasure, and instinctively reach down to stroke himself, but Sherlock batted it away and took it in his own slender hand.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked quietly. John nodded again.

The detective coated his length with the lube and gently nudged John's hole. "_Sherlock. Just_—_fuck!_"

John's hips bucked up again as Sherlock brushed against a particularly sensitive spot on his length.

The taller man didn't hesitate. He lifted John's legs over his shoulders and pressed inside. The doctor scrambled to lace his fingers with Sherlock's, which the detective couldn't help smiling at. _Sentiment. Maybe having that particular defect isn't so bad after all._

But his thoughts became muddled soon as John clenched around him, making the most obscene noises that only served to push his partner closer to the edge. He couldn't help letting out a few noises himself.

"Oh, _John!_" Sherlock cried out, finishing inside him. The orgasm shot through his body, and he almost collapsed then and there.

John followed soon after, crying Sherlock's name out in pure ecstasy.

He finally pulled out, collapsing on the bed, too warm and content to clean up just yet.

They snuggled under the sheets, their breathing patterns slowly but surely returning to normal.

"Still bored?" John asked quietly. Sherlock heard the smile in his voice.

"Oh, no," the detective affirmed, nuzzling the back of his lover's neck. "But rest assured, I'm sure I will be before long."

John laughed, rolling over to face him. "How would you feel about a shower right about now?"

"Yep. Bored again. Might as well," Sherlock grinned.

"You cheeky bastard," John teased, rolling out of bed.

Before he could leave, Sherlock grabbed his hand. "Oh, one more thing."

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I know."

"Really?"

"Not a hard deduction."

"Hmm."

"And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too."

"I know. Not a hard deduction."

"_Sure_."


End file.
